


stop pretending to be a hero

by WeAreTomorrow



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Afghanistan, Bruce Banner Feels, Clint Needs a Hug, Coping, Emotional Constipation, Jarvis Likes To Cook, M/M, PTSD, Protective Natasha Romanov, Rebuilding NYC, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Steve Has Issues, The Avengers Have Issues, Thor Is A Good Person, Tony Has Issues, Tony Has More Problems Than A Geometry Textbook, big man in a suit of armour, stop pretending to be a hero, take that away and what are you?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTomorrow/pseuds/WeAreTomorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tony sleeps less then did he before and at this rate, they’re gonna need to start adding hours to the day. Somehow he saves himself and then Pepper and then the world. </p><p>He should probably see a therapist, at some point."</p><p>---</p><p>Tony is not okay.</p><p>Mentions of Pepper/Tony. Eventual Steve/Tony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

[](http://s1288.photobucket.com/user/WeAreTomorrow13/media/IronMan_zps274377b6.png.html) 

 

He’s spent his entire life walking around in shoes too big for his feet, with too much money in his pockets and too much alcohol in his bloodstream, too much _fuck you_ bravado to be taken seriously.

 

He’s spent his entire life being Tony Stark.

 

He does not let people take him seriously because the world laid siege to him since the first time paparazzi lights flashed in his scrunched up baby-face as Maria Stark left the hospital. His father is in Berlin at the time and that’s exactly the kind of opening a story like this deserves. They have laid siege and he will not give them the satisfaction of letting them know how hungry he is. How starved he is for a little taste of genuine human interaction.

 

So. He spends his entire life like it’s another credit card that’ll never max out.

 

He keeps spending it and spending it and when he comes back from Afghanistan, he looks at the aftermath of the person he ceased being and thinks, _I just woke up_ and _good morning_. It hits him like a piano or the butt end of a pistol to the head. It hits in his knees and the bones that go from his wrists to his elbows. It aches like growing pains and sometimes he is just so disgustingly _grateful_.

 

The realization hollows out his teeth like hard liquor, which makes sense because most truths are 80% hard liquor in Tony’s experience.

 

Mostly though, he thinks things like, _I wish somebody would wake me up when I have nightmares_ and _the world is a pretty stupid place_. Gratitude doesn’t chase away the grind of sand against his teeth when he spits in the sink, because his anger is just as genuine and hard to swallow. His mouth is dry from swallowing.

 

That’s not sexual. Tony mostly stops being sexual when he comes back from Afghanistan.

 

He showers until the top layer of his skin erodes and tries to fuck the smell of blood out of his system but instead the back of his neck gets damp with sweat and when he says _yeah baby, right there_ what he means is _I was so fucking scared of dying_.

 

All of his stories start like this: before I came back from Afghanistan, or, after I came back from Afghanistan.

 

It’s like he’s still got grit crusted into the creases of his body and most days he’s afraid of slowing down, afraid that if he does people will the notice him shaking to pieces, leaking from all the gaping holes in his emotional psyche. His ligaments creak in the morning when he uncurls into daylight and Tony wishes he were just a goddamn machine already so that he can fix himself.

 

The cheeseburger is not cutting it.

 

There’s a moral here though. He’s spent his entire life wasting it.

 

This was the warning shot. Tony is luckier than most people; he’s realized what he owes the world and has the resources to follow through. Not sleeping much helps; it’s productive. There’s a little word called redemption that’s stuck in his head.

 

Because Tony doesn’t know how to fix himself—and will somebody just tell him that It Gets Better already, please?—but suspects he’s been broken for years now and this, _this_ , he can do like the blueprints are sketched in the veins of his eyelids, simply waiting for him to bring them to life. _Make me a real boy_ , he thinks and this is a very serious request.

 

The world takes Ironman very seriously but see, Tony can still make them laugh when he wants to.

 

He is in his element; he loves the way titanium alloy melts and fills up room with heat and welding fumes, loves the copper zing pressed against his tongue when he bites down on whatever essential piece of machinery his hands are too full to hold, loves the way his blueprints take on a tangible third dimension and, more and more, he loves the way metal doesn’t remind him of sand.

 

It’s one of the few things that doesn’t.

 

So he drinks coffee until his eyes start focusing and welds metal onto metal onto metal until there are no chinks in his armour and the blue sparks blur in his vision to become blue sky and, fuck, _sometimes he cannot breathe_.

 

He presses a hand to his arc reactor and wonders if CPR can be performed on his body.

 

He wakes up in complete darkness with terror stuffed in the back of his throat like a gag because _nobody is going to save them_. He chokes on his own fear like an animal, clawing the cave wall with blunt fingers that are made of flesh and bleed and break and have you ever had all the joints in your pinky broken? The pain settles into the curves of his body like sediments, like an avalanche, clogging his lungs and the pathways leading to his frontal lobe and he is _so fucking scared_.

 

Tony wakes up in complete darkness and he came back from Afghanistan, he came back from Afghanistan, he came _back from Afghanistan, he_ —is broken, if you know what strings to pull.

 

He feels like a puppet, the tremors in his hands out of his control.

 

Tony sleeps without a shirt on after that, if he sleeps, and the light of his arc reactor on the ceiling is the only thing keeping him sane sometimes. It’s always cold when he places a hand to it and it helps, helps him to separate the memories of _heatsweatsand_ into _heat_ and _sweat_ and _sand_. It’s less potent that way.

 

It hits him one night, stumbling up from his workshop into the kitchen after not eating for a few days, his body on the verge of passing out. He should probably stop doing this.

 

Starvation smells like dried fruits and alcohol. This is a scientific fact. The body breaks down proteins in a last greedy effort to live, molecules simplified into ketones. He thinks that might be irony right there, that the body is reduced to eating itself while you smell like raspberry parfait.

 

Pepper smells like raspberries sometimes when he lets her come close enough.

 

Still, the moral of this story is that Tony needed a wake-up call, needed a warning shot to get him running in the right direction. He likes to think he’s doing okay, the transition out of weaponry going well. He’s doing okay.

 

Occasionally, if he’s tired enough, he can sleep the whole night through. He stops feeling sand between his toes and his showers don’t raise red welts on his back and upper arms. Pepper is laughing at his jokes again and Tony can look at her and think _amazing_ instead of _if you had been sitting across from me taking pictures the explosion would have sent shrapnel through your neck right into your voice box and the combination of shock and pain would have made you pass out before the blood loss killed you and I would never hear your voice again_.

 

He can think _amazing_ most days now. Sometimes, he even thinks about saying it out loud.

 

Then Stane kind of literally rips his heart out of chest and leaves with his arc reactor tucked under one arm like a shopping bag. How long has that one been on the grocery list?

 

It all gets a little fucked up after that. There’s a lot of booze involved.

 

 _Give me a scotch. I’m starving_ —he says, and it’s the closest he’s come to confession in a long time. See, Tony is not a nice person. This is just a fact and he has never been good at saying the things he means to.

 

His body feels violated, aching from the shots he keeps forcing through his liver. It makes no sense that he keeps coming back to the word _rape_ , but he can’t help it. It wasn’t sexual, it was predatory and he tries to fuck it out of his system but instead the back of his neck gets damp with sweat and when he says _yeah baby, right there_ what he means is _I want to throw up on your naked body_.

 

It doesn’t stop him though, working through sex with the slow burn of alcohol in his system and he feels sick, slick with nausea and self-pity and dissipating ethanol. He might be punishing himself. He might be trying to prove something. He might be in mourning.

 

For who he thought Stane was or who he thought he could be, who knows.

 

The word redemption still rattles around his head sometimes, but it mostly just hurts. He’s got a new one though: vengeance.

 

 _You put your hand in my chest_ , Tony thinks with his dick inside of somebody and her hands clawing at his shoulders, _and I killed you_. Mazeltov.

 

He learns this about life too—it’s harder to die when you can feel the expiration date.

 

He thinks of Yinsen bent over his body, playing Operator with tools that he sharpened on a rock before disinfecting with flame and gin. He thinks of Yinsen bleeding out between his fingers, catching bullets for him. Thinks of Yinsen’s village and how burning flesh isn’t a smell he can febreeze out his clothes. Ironman has a death toll, now, to match the one of Tony Stark.

 

Vengeance is a hard liquor word, burning his throat on the way up. He came back from Afghanistan, damn it. He comes back every morning.

 

Tony sleeps less then did he before and at this rate, they’re gonna need to start adding hours to the day.

 

He pictures Yinsen at his birthday party, the dusty lines of his face thick with disappointment. Tony closes his faceplate until he can fake a smile at the bartender and drinks until he forgets what the hell the Middle East is anyway. Things don’t make a lot of sense after that, except for the parts where people try to kill him.

 

Somehow he saves himself and then Pepper and then the world. He should probably see a therapist, at some point.

 

Really, he’s not feeling too bad about himself when he sits down across from Nick Fury and gets his heart broken like a teenage girl. It wouldn’t be so bad if they had some other codeword. At least that’s how Tony comforts himself. But the name Avengers sets his lungs on fire, burning his tongue. You know, by now he’d have thought someone would figure out that _I don’t work well with others_ is just another way of saying _I’ve been failing to get people to love me for years_. It’s something of a lifestyle, at this point.

 

It’s a hard-liquor moment, and who is he to deny a little drink? Let’s propose a toast to Ironman, who could’ve been a hero if it weren’t for the person inside him.

 

Things still don’t make a lot of sense, but Pepper lets him kiss her so Tony decides to roll with it. It might be a pity-fuck, but when the back of his neck gets damp with sweat he says _yeah baby, right there_ and what he means is _I’ve been wanting you for years_. With her tangled into his sheets, feet wrapped around his ankles and the light of the arc reactor on the ceiling, Tony sleeps for hours at a time. But.

 

Shit continues to hit the fan. Someone should really consider turning the damn thing off.

 

 _Big man in a suit of armour_ , Rogers says, mouth twisting like a cork out of a bottle and he is unbraced for the reek of truth in the words that hit his unmasked face. Not unmasked exactly, he is being Tony Stark. _Take that away and what are you?_

Tony has zero answers but his mouth takes care of it for him— _genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist_ , you want his resume, just ask—and it feels like he’s been training for this moment since he first looked up ‘sarcasm’. His body lets him down anyway, shuddering in anger, put in tailspin from the way he crashes into his childhood idol. His fingernails are too short to cause his palm serious damage but not for lack of trying.

 

This fight has been a long time coming, he’s not gonna side-step it now just because it’s Steve-fucking-Rogers telling him he’s a little boy playing dress up instead of Fury or Coulson or even Pepper.

 

He’s been waiting for this fight since the very moment he stood up at that press conference and said, _I am Ironman_. He’s been waiting for somebody to tell him he’s not the good guy.

 

It’s all in his resume, go ahead. Take a look.

 

 _I know guys with none of that worth ten of you_ , Tony is told and thinks, _get in line Captain_ , _you’re hardly the only one._ He could list a half-dozen people who should be standing here poised on the threshold of saving the world again, shoulder to shoulder with the icon of Everything Nice And Swell America Should Stand For. A list that starts with all the soldiers in the truck with him the day that Everything Went To Shit.

 

Funny, how he still isn’t over this. Every time he takes a picture with someone. Jesus fuck, do you even know how often that it?

 

Tony opens his mouth to call him out on sexism. He knows women worth hundreds of him. Pepper has been more or less running his company since he hired her, has been running _him_ since he Came Back From Afghanistan.

 

 _The only thing you really fight for is yourself_ , says Rogers, like he’s looking through his two-way mirror and seeing an empty room on the other side. And that. That hurts, whites out his brain like an electrical failure. Tony wants to spit back in his face, tell him, _nobody has given me anything else to fight for_. Or, _I thought you loved lost causes_.

 

It pools low in his stomach like the urge to vomit; he rides out a wave of visceral, animal instinct to lash out at those high and mighty cheekbones.

 

 _You’re not the guy to make the sacrifice play_ , Rogers says, looking him in the eyes, _to lay down on a wire and let the other guy crawl over you_. And fuck you, Captain America, he’s got blood on his hands and a hole in his chest plugged up with grief and machine wires that unravel over time. The closest thing he had to a father stuck his hands inside his open wounds like a cookie jar and tried to flick the switch to corpse.

 

He hasn’t got a lot of people who stick around for him to lay the wire down.

 

There’s a moment where he breathes after the sentence impacts and nobody jumps to his defense, which is exactly why he has built his own walls so high and thick in the first place.

 

He can tell you the names of all the people who have died for him and he needs more than the fingers on both hands. The knowledge makes his joints ache and pop. _I’m sorry_ , he tells Yinsen’s dead face in his head, _that my life couldn’t be a little more worth it_. He’s working on it, really honest-to-god trying to restructure his legacy and his life.

 

It’s the wires in his head he can’t reroute as easily and he feels _this close_ to short-circuiting most of the time.

 

He is human in the worst possible way and the truth is that Tony is not very good with humans. He can’t just overwrite the old programming, can’t just update update update until the bugs in the system are worked out. It’s too vulnerable like this, with skin and sweat and adrenalin flooding his frontal lobe.

 

 _I think I would just cut the wire_ , Tony answers because what else is there to say?

 

 _Always a way out_ , he sneers and really, Tony should be proud that he was able to put such an ugly look on Rogers’ face.  The intensity of his anger is unavoidable, entire body dedicated to the emotion and it ripples through him like lightening. He stands there in the spotlight of derision and feels oddly unsurprised with the way the argument unfolds like origami paper. The conversation was shaped like a middle finger from the start.

 

For the sake of emotional stability, he should probably stop trying to connect with the people he looks up to.

 

They dislike him and/or end up dying.

 

 _You know, you may not be a threat,_ Rogers takes a step closer, projecting like radio waves and there’s no ignoring the message— _but you better stop pretending to be a hero_.

 

And there, finally somebody’s said it.

 

Stop pretending to be a hero, Stark.

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teaser for the next chapter:
> 
> "And that’s how Tony ends up walking Captain America home, palms sweaty like he’s on a first date."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that’s how Tony ends up walking Captain America home, palms slick with sweat like he’s on a first date.

[](http://s1288.photobucket.com/user/WeAreTomorrow13/media/IronMan_zps274377b6.png.html)  

 

The thing about space is that he _actually cannot breathe_. Other than that, it’s nice.

 

He always wanted to go to space as a child.

 

He sacrifices himself for New York City, and that’s a little thing some would call _irony_ or, as Pepper would say _Tony being difficult again, trying to prove everybody wrong_. He doesn’t end up dying but it’s thought that counts, right? Turns out CPR isn’t necessary, all it takes is a Hulk. Tony is pretty okay with not dying, if he’s honest, even if it lessens the impact of the gesture. Suffocation is an awful way to go he’s found, and next time can’t somebody just shoot him? You’d think, given his line of work it wouldn’t be so much to ask for.

 

The moment he inhales—and sweet Jesus, why doesn’t anybody appreciate how _good_ air feels whistling through lungs? He is going to start pushing technology for air purification the moment he get can get his hands on a StarkPad and—his mouth starts moving again, to hold back the tears.

 

The moment he inhales Tony is hit by relief so profound all the muscles in his body go slack and he’s only 60% sure he hasn’t peed himself.

 

His suit takes care of it, just like Tony built it to, because when nobody jumps to your defense and you’ve been at siege for years, the only choice you have is to make yourself untouchable, impenetrable. The mask hides his expression on the way to the Swarma restaurant and when it opens to let Tony eat, there is no evidence on his face to suggest anything other than confidence.

 

Across the table, Roger’s face is just as unhelpful as his own, giving nothing away, but it was the first thing Tony saw upon revival. This is nothing to read into; he reads into it anyway.

 

He is not good with people but the laugh that leaked out of Captain America when Tony inhaled was full of happiness. The sound wrecks something in his chest, tightening his gut, and he should be angry at the damage but wants to listen to it anyway. He’s never taken care of his body, why start now?

 

Nobody is laughing now though, eating Swarma in the ruins of the city he loves fiercely like a child. New York is as close to home as he’ll let the word come.

 

His insides feel hollowed out when he looks outside the shop window. He chews on his food and it tastes like guilt, like _you should’ve done more_ , like _there is going to be a death toll_ , like _if only you had figured this out sooner, aren’t you supposed to be the genius here?_ Tony keeps trying to say something, silence crushing and accusing and he wonders if they blame him for not seeing this coming, if they’ll kick him off the team with politely apologetic faces.

 

 _I’m sorry_ , they’d say, _we tried but it’s just not going to work_. It’s not us, it’s you.

Swallowing past his dry mouth, he tells himself to stop acting like a kid with a crush. He did attempt to die for the mission, that’ll keep him around until the next disaster at least when Coulson comes calling with that squished look of disagreement and—

 

 _Coulson is dead_ , Tony says out loud without meaning to, as it hits him. It’s just, he’s _dead_.

 

The rest of the team looks up, as the knowledge sinks into their pores. Clint digs his nails into his forearms so casually Tony wouldn’t have noticed, if he weren’t so good at that trick himself. The archer looks wrecked, like all the bones in his body are splintering under the weight of his guilt. _It’s not your fault_ , Tony wants to say because _he’s_ the one that brought Loki back to the base. But words are never going to be enough and he knows exactly what it feels like to have the product of your hands and your brain turned against what you were trying to protect in the first place.

 

They hijacked his free will; even the idea of it is so violating that Tony shudders in his seat. The world makes less sense than it did twenty-four hours ago and _magic is real_ and what can mortals do in face of that?

 

 _Wait_ , Bruce swallows, looking green around the edges, _Coulson is dead?_

And, well. Shit.

 

Glances flit around the table like a merry-go-round. It’s Captain America who finally steps up, voice gentle like he’s approaching, well, like he’s approaching an emotionally fragile, skittish human being who could at any moment turn into an indestructible rage-monster and lay waste to a city already in shock.

 

 _Loki got him_ , Rogers explains as Clint tries to sink into his chair, shoulders hunched up to his ears.

 

 _And where was I?_ Bruce asks, knowing the answer. The question lingers in the air.

 

Eventually, Natasha squares her shoulders and looks him in the eye. _You were fighting me, Bruce_.

 

An angry, wounded sound is ripped from the back of his throat, half-Hulk and half-human. They are all superheroes of the finest caliber Fury could find, have faced down terrorists and Nazis and deranged alien princes. They have defeated magic and science and death despite all odds and logic. And still, the sound makes everybody at the table flinch.

 

Bruce stands, unsteadily, breathing hard. _I’m just gonna go_ , he manages through clenched teeth, _fresh air_. He stumbles out into the wreckage like a drunk.

 

The silence left behind is thick with unspoken things, nobody meeting his eyes over the table top. Tony wants to apologize, wants to dig nails into his skin, wants to kick himself for the way his mouth says all the wrong things without trying. Clint looks sick with emotion and vulnerable and he’s _sorry_ , he didn’t mean to say it out loud. He wonders—if all three of them claim responsibility for Coulson’s death, than did the man technically die three times?

 

 _Clint and I will follow him_ , Natasha says, standing with her shoulders back and chin firm in the structure of her face. She looks like she could go another ten rounds, fight another invasion and this woman is human, how is that possible? Even Thor looks ready to sleep for a week straight, the skin around his mouth and eyes sagging. _Make sure he stays out of trouble_.

 

 _When he’s calmed down_ , Tony tells her, _bring him back to Stark Tower._

 

He doesn’t bother asking her if she needs a key to get in, he knows she kept her all-access pass from when she was pretending to be his assistant. Even if she hadn’t, he doubts that would hold her up for long. The knowledge that a SHEILD assassin can break into all of his buildings—though not his labs, and not his mind where he keeps all of his most important blueprints anyways—should possibly worry him.

 

Natasha tilts her head curiously, _Stark Tower?_

The rest of the team looks just as confused. Did they not know? Well, they don’t all have personal AI systems to hack into classified files. _I don’t want him to end up sleeping on street corners again_ , he explains, _and SHEILD’s room for him isn’t even trying to pretend it’s not a cage_.

 

Natasha’s mouth twists downward but she doesn’t disagree. Her sharp nod lets him relax in his seat as she leaves, Clint slinking out after her.

 

Rogers’ eyes are slicing into the side of his face.

 

Even when Thor coughs awkwardly into the heavy silence, Tony can’t bring himself to turn and look at the god, knowing his eyes will have to slide past Rogers’ _. I regret to inform you that I must depart_ , Thor says, sounding genuinely sorry, _alas my Jane awaits me_. Thor says _my Jane_ with such tenderness that his wrists ache like an old man in the rain. Tony slaps a wide grin on his face and closes his eyes as he turns his head. _Good for you man_ , he says, opening his eyes to Thor’s earnest facial hair, _nice to have somebody waiting for you to come home, huh?_

Rogers’ eyes are heating up the other side of his face now, like a rug-burn.

 

The bell on the door rings loudly as it falls shut behind Thor’s broad shoulders and then it’s just him and Captain America. Tony wonders if it would be rude to pack up and leave, take the rest home for the morning. Pepper’s always on his case about not eating leftovers though; he forgets or can’t be bothered when fresh takeout is an order away.

 

And, oh shit. _Pepper_.

 

He should probably call her, let her know he’ll be back soon. It’s past midnight in Malibu though, what if he wakes her up? It’ll be better just to show up in person, apologize if she’s awake, crawl into bed if she’s not. _Mind if I get the check?_ he asks of Rogers’ elbow, already gesturing to the guy behind the counter.

 

 _Um_ , Rogers says, surprised. _Yeah, thanks, I don’t really bring money with me in the suit._

Tony feels his mouth turn up despite himself, pulling a few fifties from his wallet. From shoulder to ankle, Captain America is nothing but spandex and rippling muscle; it’s not subtle, and not designed with pockets. Thinking about it, Tony’s probably lucky he happened to have his wallet in his jeans when he suited up. The places he goes usually have a tab under his name. _Here you go_ , he says, trying to hand over the money to the man—probably the shop owner, he realizes—approaching the table. The owner grins, his mouth full of crooked teeth, and shakes his head.

 

 _You save my city_ , the man says, accent heavy, _you no pay_.

 

While Tony stares at him, mouth open in surprise, the man pushes something into his palm. His fingers closes around it immediately, even as he protests— _but, we ate like half your shop, dude._ The owner continues to shake his head and something like warmth spreads in his chest. He looks helplessly at Rogers for support, forgetting about eye-contact, but the man does is shrug.

 

The owner herds them toward the door, and winks. _You pay next time._

The bell dings as it shuts behind them and Tony uncurls his hand to see a fortune cookie. He can’t help but throw back his head and laugh until his throat feels like sandpaper. When he wipes tears from his eyes, Rogers is looking at him carefully, unsure if Tony is about to collapse or go crazy. He’s not sure himself; the adrenalin is wearing off and the back of his mind is buzzing with white noise and he’s going to have nightmares about this and he might have _died_ today. Magic is real and aliens can suck your willpower out of your chest.

 

It hasn’t sunk in yet, how fucked up this is, but he’s afraid it’ll shatter him when it does.

 

 _We’re not his soldiers_ , Tony had said because, hello. Authority issues, trust issues, cannot-work-with-others issues—he has more issues than a magazine, more hang-ups than a laundry line, more problems than a Geometry textbook. He belongs to himself only because nobody jumps to his defense when he breathes after impact and he refuses to follow orders blindly when all of his life he’s been finding better solutions.

 

The only thing Tony has ever been able to count on is his own brain.

 

 _He gave me a fortune cookie_ , he tries to explain but it’s not something that can be explained with words really and Rogers looks blank, _did they not have these back in the forties?_

 

He gets a half-shrug as a response and a curious glance.

 

Feeling generous, Tony offers it to him. _Go ahead, you’ll like this._

The quirk of Rogers’ eyebrows is unconvinced, but he takes the cookie with a polite _thanks_ so he’ll call it a win. For a moment, they just look at each other. Tony shoves his hands into his pockets up to the wrists, uncertainty catching him off-guard. All of a sudden he’s deeply grateful that he trained himself out of blushing years ago. There’s just something about Steve Rogers that makes him shy, that cuts through his bullshit and leaves him flustered, flushed.

 

 _So_ , he says cheerfully, cursing his brain, _I guess I’ll see you around then, Cap._

_Yeah_ , Rogers says, quietly, looking lost. Like, literally looking lost, squinting at the blasted street signs and roads blocked with rubble.

 

 _Um_ , he says before over-thinking it, _mind if I walk you home, actually? Your place is on the way._ The tension seeps out of the other man’s shoulders like the offer is a bathtub drain, swirling away and leaving a smile curved into the corner of Rogers’ mouth. _Yeah_ , he answers, _I don’t mind_.

 

And that’s how Tony ends up walking Captain America home, palms slick with sweat like he’s on a first date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teaser for the next chapter:
> 
> "Pepper is not just waiting for him, she is drunk."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Pepper is not just waiting for him, she is drunk."

[](http://s1288.photobucket.com/user/WeAreTomorrow13/media/IronMan_zps274377b6.png.html)  

 

They stand in the middle of Captain America’s living room, looking at the street through what used to be a wall. A giant slab of cement is rammed through the TV, the couch is singed by—is that? Yeah. Repulsor beams.

 

Well, shit. That’s kind of awkward.

 

He steps over the head and shoulders of an alien carcass to peer down onto the street, where the sirens of a smashed car are still wailing. The floor is splattered with blood like some kind of modern art deco leading into the kitchen, where a pair of disembodied legs rest innocently against the fridge. Tony doesn’t remember smashing into this particular apartment, doesn’t remember the lack of microwave or the old-fashioned kitchen timer with bells on top, but that’s because all he really remembers is the smell of burning Chitauri meat being circulated out of his helmet and the satisfaction of crunching bone.

 

He remembers Clint’s voice in head, and Captain America and the extra-spicy pleasure of killing an alien that had the jump on a team mate.

 

Tony sneaks a careful look at Rogers’ glazed eyes as the man kneels, hands fumbling with papers that’ve been scattered across the ground, some of them still smoldering gently. Not papers, sketches.

 

He bends over to help, scooping the rest up into his arms, trying to shake off the settled layer of soot. The topmost drawing must have been a portrait, there’s a hole burned right through the lower half of a masculine face. He winces—definitely repulsor beams. Looking closer, he realizes with no small amount of shock that not only is it a portrait, it’s _beautiful_. The slope of the nose. The delicate crease between eyebrows. The dark hair tangled from wind or restless hands or sleeping too late.

 

For a moment Tony is caught between inhale and exhale, gut clenching with the knowledge that _this is a picture of him_.

 

Except, of course it’s not. He breathes out.

 

The dark hair is too short on the sides, the slope of the nose too flat, the shape of the head slightly different. He’s seen his face plastered across enough magazines covers and company memos to recognize himself. His gut doesn’t unclench, though.

 

 _Here you go_ , Tony says, pushing the sketches toward Rogers who clutches them to his chest like he’s drowning, eyes still glazed over, thumb tracing the burned edges like a wound and Tony has the sudden feeling he is intruding on something that’s not his to see.

_Thanks for walking me home,_ Rogers says through barely moving lips, toneless like an automated message, _I can take it from here._

His words are cold, chilly. Tony bristles out of instinct, mouth opening to fire off a cheap shot, a distraction while he tightens his composure. Offense is the best defense, right? But he grits his teeth against the response trying to force its way out of his mouth and gambles instead. _Look_ , he says, rolling for the double sixes, _you can’t stay here. Let me set you up at Stark Tower._

_Is that an order, Stark?_ Rogers’ sneers at him, eyes hard as they turn to meet his, fingers clenched white around his sketches. Before the rejection impacts, Tony has a absurd moment where he wants to say, _careful, you’ll wrinkle the paper_.

 

And then it punches up through his stomach, hot in his chest like acid or Happy’s cooking or heartburn, Rogers using his height to the full advantage to look down on him. Okay, he gets it: Captain America and Ironman might work together but that’s where the line is drawn. It’ll get better, he’ll get used the intensity of this dislike. For now though, Tony just swallows.This is why he never got into gambling, see? Bad karma. Tony closes his eyes, wishing for the _schnick_ of his faceplate, for the way his suit keeps him from having to touch the world. He just isn’t good at humans.

 

 _Fine, princess_ , he says reflexively, retreating back into himself, _personally, I think you need all the beauty sleep you can get. But then again, if seventy years didn’t fix that face of yours, we can probably give up now. Wait, it’s the inside that counts, right? Don’t worry, nobody puts Baby in a corner. You’ll be all over the news tomorrow, just like old times._

The cultural reference is just unnecessary, but it helps him get a grip as he scrambles to dig his nails into this thing called self-control. He’s out the door and half-way down the steps before Rogers’ answer rings out after him.

 

_For some of us it’s not about the fame, Stark. But that’s okay, I’m sure someone will spare you an interview or two._

 

And then he’s outside, trying to stand up straight and call Jarvis and breathe at the same time. Hands on his knees, dizzy from anger and accusation and _I tried to fucking die for you asshole_. The car alarm is still wailing in the background. Something crashes and then everything is quiet, except for the pulsing of his heart in his ears. Even when he stops shaking enough to pull out his phone, his voice is still rough, like he’s been thoroughly choked for a while.

 

Throat raw, spine aching, Tony says— _take me home Jarvis_.

 

Usually flying is the one thing he can always rely on to clear his head, letting the slits of his suit open just enough for the wind to rush through and keep his thoughts from swallowing his brain. It’s not working tonight though and he barely registers the fact that he’s crossing the state line of California until he’s touching down outside of his house in Malibu. Jarvis says quietly _Pepper is waiting for you inside_ and opens the door for him.

 

Pepper is not just waiting for him, she is drunk.

 

And he is so not equipped to deal with this tonight, or ever. He didn’t even know she could get drunk, has witnessed her tipsy less times then he’s saved the world from supervillians and not for lack of trying.

 

 _Tony_ , she says, tear tracks carved into her face. _You called me and I didn’t pick up._

_Oh, Pepper_ , he answers, letting his suit fall away from him, and tries to hold her. She places both hands against his shoulders, bracing herself. She is careful not to touch his arc reactor. Usually it’s more subtle, more natural, but he’s been noticing for weeks now how she finds excuses to pretend his reactor doesn’t exist, picking out shirts thick enough to block the light, curling away from the press of metal at night. And now, coordination shot to hell, she places her fingers carefully to only touch the parts of him that are human.

 

 _I thought you were dead_ , she says, hiccupping, _Why didn’t you call me again?_

_I wasn’t sure if you would be asleep or not,_ he whispers into her hair and when spoken out loud the logic of his reasons crumble away. She laughs and it’s not a pretty sound. _I’m sorry, Pepper, next time I swear I’ll do better._

_Next time,_ she says, words cut loose from the wreckage of her voice.

 

 _Next time,_ he promises and misses the point entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teaser for the next chapter:
> 
> "He hasn’t been this stupid with emotion since he was sixteen but here he is, watching black-and-white movies from the forties like he’s never met the word subtlety. "


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last night he didn’t destroy his suits again, Tony can’t really expect to keep this for himself too.

[](http://s1288.photobucket.com/user/WeAreTomorrow13/media/IronMan_zps274377b6.png.html) 

 

 

He has nightmares.

 

Not that this is new, or unexpected. He is okay, he is fine, he is drowning in the symptoms of his PTSD like alphabet soup.

 

When he sleeps, he dreams of gravity being sucked away from him like battery power. Since the very first time he fell from the sky with ice slick in his joints, Tony realized it didn’t scare him. He can fly; falling is part of that. When he wakes up in panic, it’s because he’s gasping for air and reminding himself that the laws of physics are still in effect around him. The worse nightmares are never about dying, though. It’s hardly the first time his arc reactor keeps him anchored to sanity so he presses a hand to the glow of his chest and reminds himself _you are in control of your own mind_. It hits him at odd times, the clink of glasses like the sound of Loki’s magic staff— _so_ compensating for something—against the metal of his reactor as it prevents his brain from being sucked out of his body.

 

There are people out there who can commandeer free will.

 

This truth always hits his body like an electric shock, making him break out in cold sweat, breath shortening to the point of hyperventilation. He is not okay.

 

All the work he’s put into disarmament, into keeping his Ironman technology out of everybody’s hands because The Wrong Hands are just a quick deal away from good guys—it means nothing if they can hijack _him_. All the fights with Rhodey, the icy treatment he gets from the US military contacts he used to consider friends, cockblocking the Senate, watching Pepper killing herself trying to drag the company stocks back up. _In trying to rid the world of weapons you’ve created it’s best one yet_ —these words loop endlessly in his head. Stane is right.

 

When he can’t sleep Tony creeps down to his workshop and sits there, looking bleakly at his suits and coming up with reasons why he shouldn’t blow them all sky high. He keeps coming back to the fact that he’s needed, that the cat can’t be put back in the bag, that Manhattan would be a pile of nuclear waste, that he doesn’t want to just be _genius billionaire playboy philanthropist_ anymore.

 

He imagines Fury’s face if he destroyed Ironman. He tries not to imagine Pepper’s.

 

Rebuilding New York feels good, like sweating out a fever. This he can do, creation and construction and the immaculate conception of blueprints rushing his system with endorphins. He likes feeling the sun-warmed concrete under his hands, humming with traffic and city sounds like a pulse. _Next time_ , he promises, _I’ll do better next time_.

 

The company board decides it’s good publicity and more or less leaves him to it. They’re glad he wouldn’t let Pepper quit as CEO; they hate him. He should have promoted her years ago.

 

He sees a lot of Bruce in NYC, checks up on him with steaming take-out and coffee and reassurances that _yes, really_ the guest room is at his disposal as long as he wants it, so are the labs and the kitchen and weight room and blah, blah, blah. They pour over the Stark Tower reconstruction plans for hours, reviewing and revising the applications and implications of a homebase powered by renewable energy, gleeful like little children with shiny new toys. Sometimes, in the moment where he breaks to crack his neck and stretch out his legs, he feels guilty for doing this with somebody else when this project was Pepper’s baby. She tells him it’s okay, that she’s much too busy and kisses her words into his cheek, _no shark tanks_. And damn if Bruce hasn’t added some modifications to the lab layout that make him want to swoon.

 

 _You’re happy here, aren’t you?_ Tony demands to know around the zillionth time that Bruce tries to move out, mumbling something about not outstaying his welcome. His friend nods reluctantly, sensing a trap. He decides it might be time for a little honesty.

 

 _I have more money then I can spend in this lifetime and trust me_ , Tony says with a grimace that’s trying to be a grin, _I’ve tried_.

 

He turns away from what might be sympathy on the other man’s face, pretending to tinker with one of the displays. Really, he’s just tapping his fingers nervously against the screen. _Truth is, you’re one of maybe four people I think actually likes me_ , he says, skin tingling with fight-or-flight instinct, _stick around as long as you like_.

 

When Tony turns back around his walls are all firmly in place again, _unless you keep eating my Chunky Monkey. Not cool._

_The Heath Bar Crunch is better anyway_ , Bruce says, rolling his eyes, but blinks back tears and can’t suppress a loose, affectionate grin. He pats himself on the back for a job well done and there’s no talk of leaving after that. On the blueprint the room is now labeled Bruce instead of Guest and that’s all there is to it, really.

 

He’s so happy it’s criminal, working long construction days that leave his body aching in the good way where exhaustion whites out the noise in his brain. He comes home to Pepper with motor oil under his fingernails and knotted shoulders to press his sweaty shirt into her immaculate blouse, dirty hands creeping up her thighs. Pepper laughs through her objections, promising him the world if he would just _go shower_. It feels good and pure and _his_ ; he cups his hands around this little bit of paradise, afraid someone will blow it out.

 

It’s Fury, naturally, that ruins it, calling to inform him about a last-minute Avenger meeting as he snarks into the phone and tries to micro-manage a tricky demolition at the same time. Well, Pepper’s always trying to get him to multi-task better.

 

Tony thinks very seriously about not showing up before he realizes Natasha would probably be sent to come and collect him. He hates being knocked out. He spends the next hour tying up loose ends, fussing over the people being put in charge until the building manager pulls him aside to remind him sternly, _no disrespect Mr. Stark but we’re professionals_. He manages to leave after that, still fussing, and stops by Stark Tower to change. He’s not stalling. He’s not.

 

Bruce is already gone when he gets there and the Tower feels strange and empty.

 

He spends too much time doing his hair in the mirror, matching his suit to his tie to his socks. _Stop trying so hard,_ Tony tells his reflection through gritted teeth. He slips on his armour, feels better, and launches into the air.

 

Tony has mastered the art of arriving early enough to just barely be late, eliciting a glare but not a lecture. This way he can grab a seat in the front and skip the awkward _how’ve you been since NY was attacked by aliens_ small talk. He’s not avoiding anybody; see, he swivels in his chair to look casually around the table.

 

Clint looks a lot healthier, and—did Natasha press her hand to the back of his neck as she sat down? It’s too fast for him to be certain. Thor is conspicuously absent and Rogers, well. He looks dandy as fuck, no surprise there. Serious crease between his eyes, body angled forward waiting for the next mission, jaw locked in his Captain America face. He’s also deliberately not looking at Tony, who can’t help wondering if Rogers’ apartment has been fixed up, or if he’s moved in somewhere else. Tony winces away from that train of thought, exactly like he’s been wincing away from knowing the construction details for that block of city.

 

Giving Bruce a little wave across the table, which is met with another eye-roll, he turns toward Fury with his best shit-eating grin. He can feel Captain America’s presence between his shoulders like a weight and _no, he is not avoiding the man, not at all_.

 

 _Where’s Thor?_ Tony waits until the exact moment Fury opens his mouth to speak _, I miss the guy. Got him hiding somewhere in your coat there, Nick?_

A long-suffering sigh from the back of the room.

 

 _Oh yeah_ , he says, with relish, this having built up inside him for weeks now, full of vicious anger and resentment, _Sorry, Cap. I forgot—he’s up your ass._

_Thor is arriving tomorrow_ , Fury says, his voice that particular shade of dangerous Tony knows so well from working with Pepper. He holds up his hands in the universal sign of surrender, trying to look innocent. His self-appointed “boss” clenches his teeth; sometimes, it’s too easy. He relaxes into his seat.

 

 _We’ve decided we want in on your publicity stunt, Stark_ —and just like that, Fury has the upper hand again. _The Avengers rebuilding the city they saved._

Of course they’re going to take this from him and twist it. Tony shuts his eyes but he can still feel judgment coming off of Rogers in waves, hitting him in the tender places where his vertebrae link together. And, yes, okay. He’s being selfish. The repairs will go quicker, cheaper, better if they’re all on the job. That’s what matters, personal feelings be damned. He owes his city that much, at the very least. Last night he didn’t destroy his suits again, Tony can’t really expect to keep this for himself too.

 

 _Do you want us working together_ , he asks Fury calmly, opening his eyes, _or should I embed us all separately into construction teams?_

Blinking in shock looks strange with only one eye but then again, any kind of surprise looks strange on Fury’s face. Do they really expect him to be that selfish? A knot tightens his stomach, _of course they do_. Nobody considers you a martyr unless you follow through on the dying part.

 

 _Together_ , Fury says finally, suspiciously, _get used to working as a team_.

 

With a great deal of effort, Tony Stark does not laugh in his face.

 

Nobody is more surprised than him when it works. When he’s not baiting Rogers into a fight or avoiding him desperately, the whole set-up is even kind of fun. It runs smoothly, ahead of schedule, even given         the friction between the two of them. They have a bad habit of guessing exactly how to hurt each other; it’s exhausting. It’s been years since Tony has met somebody he can’t help reacting to, somebody that he can’t dismiss or shut out or sleep with. So he grits his teeth, digs his heels in and fights, deflects, defends.

 

Even Bruce has given up on convincing him to back off, and the team simply weathers the storm when it comes.

 

 _Why don’t you try being nice_ _to him_ , his friend grumbles, attempting to coax him out of the bathroom after a particular nasty fight that sends them both running in opposite directions to lick their wounds.  Tony traces the darkening bruise on his jawline with something he wants to call satisfaction but is mostly just pain. It’s the first time Steve has hit him, the first time he’s lost control and Tony wants to revel in the knowledge but can’t. He feels dirty, guilty, can feel Coulson’s disappointment prickling the back of his neck from the grave.

 

It’s just that, Steve brought up his dad. _It doesn’t matter what you build in this lifetime, you’ll never be the man your father was._

 

And then the words are out of his mouth before he knows what he’s saying, his vision actually blurring with rage and he is so livid, spitting acid, wanting to hurthurthurt the way he is hurting: _What? Because he built you? Nice ego you got for a guy who couldn’t save his best friend._

He doesn’t unlock the bathroom door.

 

That night he comes home to Pepper with a million justifications but his tongue feels swollen and he says nothing at all. She hands him an ice pack with as sigh and calls up his publicist. Her disappointment is a throbbing ache in the bones of his face.

 

She sleeps next to him without touching and Tony doesn’t take any pain killer in the morning because, karma or penance or whatever.

 

He and Rogers avoid each other after that, speaking through other people or with artificial politeness. They silently establish a protocol, rules of conduct. They don’t look each other in the eyes, keep a cool distance of a few feet between them when communicating, reduce interaction to the essentials of getting the job done. And despite everything, all their precautions, Tony finds himself wound up by the man’s very presence, hyper-aware of it. It gets harder and harder to go on ignoring each other with so much tension coiling beneath the surface. The _good soldier_ face belies an intensity whose absence he is reeling from; the tight knot of emotions in his gut, the endless rage and helplessness he finally had a target for, it builds up like lactic acid in his muscles.

 

He needs a pressure valve. He needs Rogers to react back, to be as affected as he is.

 

The bruise blossoms across Tony’s jaw and up the side of his cheek in vivid green and yellow shades. It’s a work of art, really. The media goes into a frenzy, not believing the _construction mishap_ bullshit that the company releases as the official story. Nobody on the team brings it up, though he catches Bruce looking sad in his direction.

 

Strangely enough, it’s Thor that sits him down to talk. _Back in my foolish youth_ , the god tells him, voice quiet in the way it always is when discussing his wayward brother, _I was boastful of my battle scars. I am more cautious now, for not all scars are stories to be proud of._

Tony tries to swallow past his dry throat but can’t. Thor seems to understand anyway, clasping his shoulders and nodding in satisfaction.

 

They work late on Friday, trying to clear the last of the Chitauri dragon-monster things from an intersection so it can be opened for the weekend. When they finish up, the sun is almost done setting, darkening their dusty shadows and when Captain America turns to tell them a tired but happy _good job_ he is outlined against the skyline with a halo of orange and gold. It’s picture-perfect propaganda, he can almost hear the patriotic music in the background. It makes him smirk, looking around proudly at the cleared street and Tony finds that the lingering moment of satisfaction is something he doesn’t want to let go of.

 

 _Celebration at the tower?_ He asks, not looking at Rogers, _I’ve got enough food and showers to go around_.

 

 _We’re going_ , Natasha says without hesitating.

 

Rogers’ opens his mouth to argue surely, and even Clint flicks her a questioning look. She tucks a strand of grimy hair behind her ear, and crosses her arms. _You haven’t used one of his showers. I have._

And that’s that.

 

He wasn’t kidding, Tony has his Tower equipped with enough guest rooms and showers and a large enough communal kitchen for all of the Avengers to live there permanently—and god, isn’t that a painfully funny thought, yeah, that ship has sailed _so hard_ —let alone host the team for one night. The house fills up with them nicely, not overstretched and not too awkward. Bruce changes into fresh clothes, Natasha does too somehow and he knows better than to ask, Thor approves loudly and heartily of the provided choices of conditioner and even Rogers’ emerges with a smile, his elastic white shirt see-through and damp. Not that the shirt left much to the imagination in the first place.

 

Showing off his manufactured, out-of-a-bottle body with such casual arrogance like he’s pretending he’s not aware of the effect—Tony trails off mid-thought, biting down on the angry heat curling in his gut.

 

He’s not gonna pick a fight tonight.

 

Turns out Clint’s not a half-bad cook and when the team wanders back in with wet hair and relaxing muscles, the archer has already gone through the fridge and kitchen cabinets, chatting amicably with Jarvis. _Where’d you say the spices were?_ he asks absently, pulling out two massive pans.

 

 _The cabinet to your left, sir,_ Jarvis answers evenly but to Tony’s fine-tuned ears he sounds delighted. It’s settled, Clint is his new favorite. Anybody who can make his AI happy is in his good books. Also whatever his teammate is making smells amazing. He can’t remember the last time somebody used the kitchen to actually cook.

 

 _You guys like stir-fry, right?_ Clint asks, over his shoulder.

 

They do. The stove plates are still hot when they finish, Tony groaning happily with the weight of real food settling in his stomach. Even Thor seems sated, grinning lazily around the table as he waxes lyrical about Clint’s prowess in the kitchen. He thinks of cracking a joke about sexism but it’s too much effort and he doesn’t want to upset the delicate ecosystem of happiness they’ve created. So he just soaks it in, tilting back in his seat to let it hit him like sunlight and studies the good-natured teasing between Natasha and Clint, the deep laughter that rolls out of Bruce, the gentle curve of Steve’s mouth as he watches them affectionately.

 

They meet gazes over the table and Rogers’ eyes shutter closed, tension seeping back into his body. The spell broken. And that’s when Tony realizes— _it would always be like this, this good, if it weren’t for him_.

 

He is the reason the Avengers are so half-functional, because they need Ironman despite the way Tony keeps fucking up the team dynamic and just plain fucking up and it’s not a question of _will they kick him off_ but _who can they find to replace him_. His fingers dig into his skin, nails long enough to give him some relief, to ground him against the sudden wave of this insight. This hard-liquor truth he’s been keeping from himself and his head is throbbing with it, swirling in his stomach and he feels so sick with stupidity at being disappointed, at being surprised. You are not a hero, Stark, stop fooling yourself. Just stop it.

 

 _Stark?_ The table falls immediately silent at the sound of Rogers’ voice, why is the man looking at him, they have established rules on this matter, he’s not allowed to do that. Oh, Tony is not breathing again. He pretending to cough, pounding his chest. _Went down the wrong tube, nothing to worry about guys._

 

And then, because his brain has finally short-circuited and everybody—Rogers, stop it, we have _rules_ —is still watching him, Tony asks: _Movie, anybody?_

By the time Tony herds everybody into the living room, makes enough popcorn to last through a movie, argues for and loses getting movie-choosing privileges, settles down on the opposite end of the couch from Rogers, gets up again to get everybody blankets, argues against the chosen movie on principle and loses, gets up again to get everybody refreshments, and is then finally forced into settling down by a collective team effort Tony has managed to compartmentalize enough that breathing doesn’t hurt.

 

The opening credits of The Incredibles washes over their faces and, with the entire set of Avengers wedged between his body and any questioning looks, Tony forces himself to relax back into the couch.

 

When the end credits roll around, the relaxation is genuine.

 

Bruce is bent in half, clutching his stomach, tears running down his cheeks. Clint isn’t much better, snickering into his hands. Thor’s chuckle is a familiar rumble and Natasha’s laugh—her genuine laughter—is surprisingly feminine. Light and airy. But it’s Rogers who is the shock to his system, amusement smoothing away all the soldier-boy frownlines that he’s so achingly familiar with. The sound makes his skin feel stretched taut.

 

 _I am not Edna_ , Tony says, trying his best to scowl and failing completely. _Tony_ , says Bruce desperately, trying to breathe, _You have word-for-word told me “I never look back darling.”_

 

He can’t really argue with that.

 

They watch Forrest Gump afterwards, then E.T., a little bit of Bride Wars before Natasha makes them turn it off and a little of The Godfather which a sleepy Clint refuses to let anybody witness for the first time without being in the _properly respectful mindset_ and finally Rogers speaks up and asks shyly if he can show them his favorite childhood movie.

 

 _I’m not sure if you have this one_ , he tells the side of Tony’s face, uncharacteristically bashful.

 

 _I have everything_ , Tony answers without any smugness, overeager to please.

 

 _It’s was Oscar nominated in 1935,_ Rogers says almost defensively, as if afraid Tony will make fun of his choice which okay, yeah, he probably does and isn’t compartmentalization a great skill? _I need the name_ , he says when his throat lets him speak again, _or do you want me to guess?_

 

 _Top Hat_ , he says simply, not responding to the involuntary half-taunt and the team breathes out. Jarvis dims the lights and the lets the movie suck the pressure back out of the room. It’s the kind of light-hearted comedy romance full of dancing and verbal sparring and mistaken identities that Tony never would have guessed Rogers could unwind enough to enjoy. Full of music, light, love and Tony forgets about ten minutes in that it’s black and white. He keeps being amazed by how _funny_ it is.

 

When the movie ends, he turns to find Rogers looking at him with pleased surprise. He jerks his eyes away as if burned, warmth spreading in his chest. Tony gets up and stretches theatrically, trying to act casual and like he hasn’t been sucker-punched in the gut with a simple look of approval.

 

 _Okay kids off to bed now_ , he says in his best patronizing voice. He stops short at Natasha’s look of warning. Clint is fast asleep on her shoulder, looking ten years younger and weightless under his dreams. Despite himself, the unnecessary barb forming in his mouth becomes a quiet question, _want to move him to one of the guest rooms? I have plenty._

He doesn’t look at Rogers.

 

 _Can’t move him_ , Natasha says, shaking her head, _he won’t go back to sleep._

Tony shrugs, handing her an extra pillow for herself. _You guys take the couch then_ , he says, with careful nonchalance, _are the rest of you staying too?_

 

The enthusiastic nod from Thor makes his feelings on the matter quite clear and the genuine eagerness with which he says _I look forward to engaging your shower again in the morning_ makes him grin right back at the god. He can’t help wondering what ‘cleaning rituals’ they have on Asgard, something he notes to himself to ask Jarvis to look into. He should really look into Asgard culture anyway to help put Thor in context. Like how and why he  can speak so naturally in iambic pentameter, the origin and properties of his hammer, his optimal calorie intake, the royal bloodline, gender roles, where the word Midgard comes from—okay, he’s stalling now.

 

 _And you?_ Tony asks, trying to force himself to meet Rogers’ eyes and instead ends up staring at the curves of his mouth as the man says, _thanks for the offer, really, but I don’t want to impose. I’ll see you all tomorrow._

Logically, he knows it’s almost word for word what Bruce told him the first time he offered but all he hears is _stop trying to be friends with me, Stark_. They have very precise boundaries when it comes to friendliness but Rogers has been breaking them all night—stop looking at him, damn it—so how is a guy supposed to know what signs to read? Tony swallows, shrugs, says, _you know the way out_ and turns his back before he gives himself away. You know, he used to be good at poker; never had the patience to be serious about it but he could lie with the best of them.

 

 _Tony_ , says Bruce through an annoyed yawn, _go after him._

 

 _Why?_ he argues, sincerely taken aback, _I’m not gonna force him to stay if he doesn’t want to._

_Tony,_ Bruce says pityingly, _of course he wants to stay_.

 

Rogers is waiting for the elevator by the time he catches up, nervous as hell and leaking tells all over the place. _Hey_ , he says and Rogers’ shocked-to-hopeful-to-neutral face fills his with enough optimism to follow through instead of taking a parting shot. It’s so much easier, being mean. Rogers’ eyes skitter away from his face and Tony rushes over his words in the effort to get them, _look the team wants you to stay and, it’s really no big deal, this place is too big without people here anyway and whatever, we all have to report to Fury together tomorrow and Bruce already lives here, it’s fine and if Natasha decides to kill me you’re probably the only one who could talk her down so yeah, you should be putting the team first here. It’ll be like a sleep-over, except not. At all. Yeah._

He’s rambling. Tony bites his lip in an effort to shut up and realizes that they’re standing really close together. _What do you say_ , he asks, holding out a hand to shake, _truce?_

But Rogers’ doesn’t reach out to shake his hand.

 

Before he can do more than swallow, there are warm fingertips against his face, tracing the edges of his faded bruise and Rogers’ fingers are _touching his skin_ and in the back of his mind he reminds himself _you need to breathe_ but the ghost of Steve’s exhale—can he say Steve, yet? Is that allowed, with fingertips pressed to his face all intimate and apologetic—sends goosebumps crawling down the back of his neck and he is frozen in this moment, he is frozen, he is malfunctioning, he is.

 

The elevator doors slide open with a _ding_ and they both jerk back, away from contact.

 

Tony blushes for the first time in years, looking at the art hanging in the waiting elevator, at his wispy reflections in the polished wall next to Steve’s head, at his hands fiddling with the watch on his wrist, anywhere but at the man in front of him. He takes another half-step back, trying to find solid footing. The side of his face is on fire, tender in all the places they had skin pressed to skin. His whole body tightens, the reaction uncontrollable, curling his toes.

 

 _I’m sorry I hit you_ , Steve says quietly, his voice tight with apology, _I’ve never done that before._

 

 _Um_ , he says wildly, trying to remember how they got here. _You’re kind of a superhero, punching comes with the job._ Steve shakes his head, like this is important for him to understand, voice low with urgency and Tony wonders desperately if he is drunk or dead or dreaming.

 

 _I’ve never hurt anybody who wasn’t a bad guy_ , explains Steve and his expression in Tony’s peripheral vision is intense, chiseled in shadow. _You’re so frustrating_ , he says, running hands—fingers that were pressed to face, what _the fuck_ —through his slicked old-fashioned hairstyle and everything is falling out of place, hair falling into eyes that are staring at Tony like he’s a locked door and they had a system, they had clearly-defined boundaries, _half of what comes out of your mouth makes me want to punch you again_. _But you’re not the bad guy._

_Um,_ he says, short of breath, short-circuiting, _so are you staying?_

 

Steve huffs a laugh, and he sways toward the sound despite himself. It’s not his fault, it’s the first thing he woke up to after he died. Cognitive associations, making his pulse speed up in his wrists.

 

 _Yeah_ , he says, _I’ll stay_.

 

Tony just blinks, trying to understand the answer.

 

 _That’s good, awesome, I mean, the team will be happy to hear we’re getting along, I mean, not that we’re friends or anything but this is a little thing called progress, right? Baby steps and all that, hey Jarvis why don’t you lead Steve to the closest bedroom, I’m sure you’re tired_ , Tony backs away, his best smile turned on as he tries frantically to escape, Steve’s presence suddenly much too overwhelming and kind and this night makes no sense, he needs space to process what’s happening with distance between him and what he’s feeling _I just remembered that I have something I need to do before tomorrow, company stuff. Gotta go be a responsible adult. Goodbye, or goodnight, whatever. See you in the morning._

 

He flees with whatever dignity he has left intact.

 

An hour later, surrounded by projects that can’t seem to hold his attention tonight, Tony puts his head in his arms and tries to slow his heartbeat. _You’re not the bad guy_ is just another way of saying _you’re not a threat_ but part of him, the part of him still stretched too thin and overly sensitive, thinks it was a peace offering. A new start, but Tony has two wrong feet or however the saying goes and it was so much easier when they were just dicks to each other because he could say that he it wasn’t his fault, that he didn’t start it, that he was just defending himself. He’ll have no target for the restless energy, no outlet for all the rolling intensity in his stomach, no excuse for the inevitable fuck-up that is any relationship with Tony Stark.

 

How Pepper copes is beyond him.

 

He gives up productivity as a lost cause, and settles into one of the workshop couches, body still buzzing and alert. _Jarvis_ , he asks, fiddling with a motherboard absently, _put on a movie for me?_

 

He hasn’t been this stupid with emotion since he was sixteen but here he is, watching black-and-white films from the forties like he’s never met the word subtlety.

 

Fuck you too, Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Countless thanks to my new beta C.Lemency, without whom this chapter would barely be half as long. You can kick my ass anytime babe ;)
> 
> Better yet she's made this story a fantastic kickass trailer which takes my breath away.  
> Watch it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOzyDksiPuo


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